Dead Heart
by FarDareisMai2
Summary: Eric's POV of Chapter 18 of Dead and Gone.


_A/N: this is a one shot. It's Eric's POV of Chapter 18 of DAG, so there are spoilers here if you have not read the book yet. For all that was not said in the book, I could still here Eric whispering his thoughts to me, so I figured I'd share._

_As always, I do not own these characters, Charlaine Harris does. I just like to play in her sandbox sometimes._

_Thanks again to Gallathea for doing the beta work. You kept me honest, and kept me from embarrassing myself. Thank you.  
_

I walked into the room, pulled to her like a lifeline. My senses were assailed by the smell of fairy, and my nose flared in response, but it was instinct, and I gave it no thought. Every nerve in my body was tuned to _her_.

I stood by the bed, looking down at her beaten and bruised body, and with everything in me I blocked my end of the bond. The rage I felt would have overwhelmed her and Ludwig had already taken me to task, warning me against upsetting her, but I could not remain entirely silent.

"Fucking _fairies_," I spat out, nearly snarling in my anger.

"Dead now," she whispered. Her tortured throat was barely able to form the words.

I growled internally, infuriated that I was not there to kill them myself. Infuriated that I was not able to take my time with them for what they inflicted on her, and I knew _exactly _how much pain she endured.

"Yes. A fast death was too good for them." I replied.

I had felt it, the pain, her horror, her despair, but I needed to see. I needed to know exactly what was done.

"I'm going to look at your wounds," I said quietly. I did not want to scare her.

"Okay." She whispered, but I could see the disgust in her eyes. Even this she took upon herself, as if it was her that was disgusting, instead of the creatures who had done this to her.

I folded down the sheet, and looked at her. She looked so small in that gown, in that bed. Gone was the voluptuous creature that captured my undead heart, and in her place lay her shell. I could only pray that I could bring her back.

They had taken delight in her, biting into her flesh and tearing away chunks. If I was not afraid of upsetting her, I would have put my fist through the wall. As it was, I tamped down on my anger, and asked her to lift her gown. She could not even do that.

I could not help the low growl that began to form in my chest, but I tried to hold it in. I don't think she heard it.

I lifted her gown, and felt my stomach clench in anger and despair. Anger, as I saw the glee with which they tormented her, tearing into the fleshy parts of her body. Her beautiful breasts were bandaged, the blood seeping through the gauze. Despair, as I relived the horror of knowing she'd been taken, and by whom, and that I could not prevent it.

She closed her eyes, and I could feel her revulsion and sorrow. I felt her mental struggle as she continually tried to process what she had been through.

I stared at her for a long time, committing these horrors to memory. I burned the images into my brain, promising myself that it would never, ever happen again. I wanted to lie down with her, to comfort her, but time was not on our side. Breandan was still looking for her, and would no doubt find us in short order.

I told her I would be back, and left the room. I returned with two bottles of True Blood, because I would need to replenish with what I planned.

I asked her to move over, and it took some time before I realized she could not manage it on her own. I carefully lifted her, and moved her over climbing in next to her. I explained that I was going to feed her, help her heal. I explained that we did not have the time to wait for her body to heal by itself.

For once she did not argue, and when I placed my bleeding wrist to her mouth, she clamped down and began to draw, and for the first time in my undead life, it did nothing for me. All I could focus on was how this was helping her, healing her.

I bit my wrist a second time and she asked, "are you sure you should do this?" Once again, she placed her concern for others above herself. This alone assured me that the core of her was still there, that they had not entirely broken her. I assured her that I was fine, that I had fed sufficiently, and that I knew what the limit was.

I tried to remain calm, to reassure her. However, when I informed her that we had to move because Breandan's followers would certainly find us, she began to cry.

"Stop that now." I told her. "You must be strong. I'm very proud of you, you hear me?" I was. I was so very proud of her. To have survived Lochlan and Neave . . .

"Why?" She asked.

_Why_, I thought. _Why, she asks?_ "You are still together; you are still a person. Lochlan and Neave have left vampires and fairies in rags—literally, rags . . . but you survived and your personality and soul are intact." I thanked all the gods in this world, and any others for that.

"I got rescued." She replied, again belittling herself, her strength of mind, character and soul.

"You would have survived much more." I told her as I reached for a bottle of TrueBlood.

"I wouldn't have wanted to. I hardly wanted to live after . . ."

My heart clenched in pain at that thought. I could not bear to think of her death. I could not bear to think she desired it. She was mine, and I would never let her go, never let anyone hurt her again. I kissed her forehead.

"But you did live. And they died. And you are mine, and you will be mine. They will not get you."

We discussed Breandan some more, then she asked about Bill. I felt a wave of jealousy pass through me, but fought it. She will always care for him, and there was naught to do about it, but I let her know that had he failed her, I would not have allowed him any help.

Her response nearly broke me.

"Why? He actually came to rescue me. Why get mad at him? Where were you?" She practically spat the question, and I could feel her rage across the bond and flinched. I could not look at her. Did she not understand what she was doing to me? The power she had over me? However, I knew she didn't. I knew it that night at her house.

We made love, and I had never felt so . . . complete. I meant every word, it _was_ best and it _was_ right. No one would, or could, ever compare. She is mine in every sense of the word. She is in my head, my heart, and she runs through my very veins. She sustains me, body and soul. Yet she does not understand me or how I feel, and frankly, I suppose I do not always understand her. That night did not exactly go as I had planned, but with Sookie, little does.

She was perfect that night. I could sense she did not believe me when I said it, but it was true. No one had ever brought me to the heights she did. Her next words cruelly brought me out of my reverie, and crashing back to earth.

"It's not like you were obliged to come find me," she continued, "but I hoped the whole time—I hoped you would come, I prayed you would come, I thought over and over you might hear me . . ."

With those words my heart broke. She did not understand, and although I would eventually explain it to her, when there was more time, oh how her words cut me to the quick. I wanted nothing more than to come to her, but I couldn't.

When she was taken I went to Felipe, urging him to exercise his declaration of protection, and to demand he give me the people necessary to go after her, to fight Breandan and his followers. He refused. He told me that his protection of her could not extend into involvement in a fairy civil war. My reaction to his refusal was far from proper. I attacked the king's honor and his word, telling him they were meaningless.

I was lucky he did not order my final death, claiming that he was merciful because he knew I was influenced by our bond. In his _mercy_, Felipe ordered me bound in silver and whipped with a silver lash. However, I felt little of it. The real punishment was experiencing her pain and terror, every moment of it, and being helpless to go to her. I was just thankful that I'd had the presence of mind to call Niall after Bill called me. They would have to find her, but now, now she believed I let her down. I had failed her, and thus became less in her eyes, in her heart. I couldn't bear the thought.

"You're killing me," I told her. "You're killing me," and I felt a shudder of despair rip through me. "I'll explain," I whispered, "I will. You will understand." She had to understand. She had to forgive me, or I could not endure it. If she only understood her power over me, how I had come to depend on her very existence. "But now, we don't have enough time. Are you healing yet?"

She was beginning to heal; I could only hope she could also forgive, because without that the hole she had just torn through my heart never would.


End file.
